


And the world turned towards morning

by straight_up_gay



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Book: Night Watch, F/F, i'll stop making short jokes about sam vimes when i'm dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-16 13:26:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8104150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/straight_up_gay/pseuds/straight_up_gay
Summary: “Good or bad, do it as you. Too many lies and there's no truth to go back to.” -Monstrous Regiment
(or, Samantha Vimes does it as herself)





	

“Listen, captain, I am Johanna Keel”, she said, and wondered if this time she’d gone too far. 

Tilden shuffled his papers. “Wrong. We are looking for a John Keel, a Jay-Oh-Haich-En, not a … Jay-Oh-Haich-Ay… En-En-Ay! ” Sam saw the labouring look in his eyes. Captain Tilden’s spelling was like the shifting of tectonic plates – it was reliable, but it happened in geological time. “Sherrif Pearlie would have told me if you were a gel.”

“Matter of fact, it’s Sherrif Macklewheet now. Pearlie died just last week.” She left a meaningful pause in the conversation, interrupted only by Snouty nodding. “And you know Macklewheet, right? He was – is an old army man through and through. Thinks everyone’s his little lads, even when they aren’t little. Or lads.”

Tilden looked over at Snouty, obviously up the Anhk without a paddle. They didn't have the delicate understanding of gender that had developed in the modern Watch, where People Were The Gender They Said They Were And If You Object Then Commander Vimes Will Have Words With You1. No, these were the old days, where most watchmen barely even knew you could be something other than male. Perhaps that was why it'd been so easy for her.

She pushed her luck. “Macklewheet said I was the best officer on the Pseudopolis force. You can read it right there in his report. Look, he’s new, he’s got twenty things on his plate including how to downplay the fact that Pearlie was literally dead drunk on the job, he probably wrote the paperwork half asleep. What I’m more concerned about is happening right in this watchouse.”

Now both Snouty and Tilden were looking blank. She loosened her handcuffs, and eyed Snouty’s crossbow. Time to push her luck off a cliff and hope that it flew.

Lu-Tze had advised her to go as John Keel. He’d said that history was vulnerable enough without any more discrepancies, and a load of other timey stuff that made her head ache. Vimes had considered responding to that advice with one of Vetinari’s favourite phrases, that she would _consider it thoughtfully_. Then she’d actually responded to it with one of her favourite phrases, _arseholes to the lot of it_. If she was going to take on a dead man’s name, at least she’d do it as herself.

***

She waited till she was out proceeding, with Young Sam at her side. She watched herself, out of the corner of her eye, with horrified fascination. Had she really been that obvious? Had she really thought that was how young men walked?

“You can drop the act, Samantha.”

To her credit, the lance-constable barely flinched. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, Sarge.” If Vimes hadn’t known her own tells, she might not even have noticed the look of fear pass her face.

“Don’t play silly buggers with me, Lance-Constable. I haven’t got the time or the patience.”

The young woman’s face quivered, then buckled. “I was careful, Miss – uh – Sarge. Even did the trick with the socks. How’d you know?”

_Because your costume wouldn’t fool a blind beggar, and it's just plain embarrassing that no one on the Night Watch has found you out yet._ “Let’s just say I’m good at noticing things." 

Sam looked at her suspiciously. “You gonna fire me, Sarge? Only, my old mum really needs the money and…”

“Lance-Constable Vimes, the Night Watch desperately needs men, no matter their gender.” That hadn’t come out as she’d wanted, but she barreled on. “Just don’t stand out too much, and remember to shout if anyone hits you in the … socks. That’s important.”

Vimes went quiet for a moment, both of her. But the younger Sam couldn’t keep her damn mouth shut. “Sarge, if you hear any stories about me kissing girls, that’s just…undercover. Like, just to throw people off the scent.”

Vimes nearly put her fist in her mouth. Bringing up the topic like this just made it more suspicious. Ye gods, how had this stupid kid survived?

“Yes, I know. You kissed Mabel Swivvy behind the Broken Drum last week. Well done.” It had been a break from Vimes’ usual streak of kissing girls who were not interested in those of the female persuasion except as a curiosity.

The lance-constable looked baffled, at least more baffled than her default state of being. Vimes took pity on her. “I won’t tell tales. Where I’m from, the Watch takes all sorts. As long as you keep your nose clean and don’t take any more bribes, the other stuff shouldn’t matter.”

Sam opened her mouth, then shut it again. Several minutes passed in silence, or at least what passed for silence in Anhk Morpork.

And this was _old _Anhk Morpork, where people talked. Especially on Cockbill Street, where you saved up respectability even when you couldn't save money. And if you couldn't toe the line, or kept kissing the wrong people, then you went somewhere like the Night Watch. The Watch was always open to people without much of a bright future.__

Oh gods. Now young Sam was giving her an adoring look, the kind that should frighten any superior officer. Pointing that much hopefulness at Vimes was more dangerous than pointing a loaded crossbow, and should have been at least as much of a crime. 

“Don’t think I’m going to go easier on you because we’re both women,” she finished, lamely. In fact, she’d gone harder on Angua than any male recruits she’d trained, and the woman had _hated_ her for it, at first. 

“No, sir, Sergeant Keele.” But, to Vimes’ dismay, there was a little bounce in her proceeding that hadn’t been there before. She had to correct the Lance-Constable’s walk twice before they got to Front Street.

***

"A word, Sergeant Keel?"

Against her will, Vimes was impressed. While Nobby's voice could insinuate, Sergeant Knock's did everything short of feeling you up.

The parenting books talked a lot about Encouraging Your Child To Be Themselves, which Vimes was properly suspicious of. It didn't say whether you should Encourage Them To Be Themselves if they were something like Knock, for instance.

She turned to meet him.

"Yes?"

"Me and the lads, we were talking."

"I hope you weren't trying to walk at the same time, Winsborough. That could've gotten messy."

He clearly understood enough to know that was an insult. "Well, we came to deciding that we didn't really want a woman in charge of us. It's unnatural, Sarge."

"Well, I'd rather not be employing a man who's only a copper because he's too dim to be a petty criminal. I guess neither of us are getting what we want." Sam didn't like people who used the word "unnatural" too liberally; they were generally the same people who started talking about her and Sybil in loud whispers when they were a few drinks under.

"Some think that you're getting airs above your position. If I were you, I'd be careful."

Vimes let the pause in the conversation stretch. She'd learned the value of a good silence from Vetinari, the way that it could twist your bowels up like the balloon dragons Sybil gave out at the Sunshine Sanctuary. FInally, she stubbed out her cigarette on her regulation Watch armour. "If anyone wants to challenge me, I'd be happy to meet them in the training yards. I'd enjoy the practice.

Knock had the look of a man bluffing with no cards. He'd run out of insinuations, and had to graduate to threats. But Winsborough Knock made sure never to threaten anyone unless he was sure they were weaker than him, and that was looking like less and less of a certainty. 

"It wasn't meant as a threat, Sergeant Keel. All I mean is that you might want to watch your back."

Oddly enough, that was exactly what Vimes planned on doing.

***

The next time they were out proceeding, Sam looked like she had a lot on her mind. Or she had to use the privvy. The constipated expression could mean either one.

“Sarge, I heard something you should know.”

“Yes, lance-constable?”

“Kno – I mean, one of the other officers said that he didn’t like having a woman in charge. Said that he…” There, young Sam’s voice trailed off. Oh yes, there was a rule that said you Didn’t Drop Other Watchmen in the Cacky. But even Sam knew that Knock was a watchman in name only. 

“I won’t drop a word in Tilden’s ear about him, if that helps.”

Sam furrowed her brow. “Knock said he was, uh, going to teach you a lesson. Said you might be in Tilden’s good books right now but that the next time he got you down a dark alley, he’d beat you so hard you'd wish you were back in Pseudopolis!” 

Vimes laughed. “Sergeant Knock couldn’t teach me anything if he had a book open in front of him.”

“But he’s a dirty fighter. Sarge, you don’t _know_ him!” Sam practically wailed.

“I know his type. And I know I can fight dirtier." 

The trouble was, she couldn't remember if it was Sergeant Keel who'd taught her to fight dirty. 

"You ever been in a gang, lance-constable?"

Sam wore the look of coppers all over the multiverse currently asking themselves whether what they're about to say is going to Get Them In It. Finally, she mumbled, "Yessarge."

"Good. So you've learned how to fight like a man." _Or, at least, an idiot teenager who's mad on adrenaline and trying to prove he's one_. "Now, I'd recommend you learn how to fight like a woman."

Sam squinted at her.

"Look, people say women are naturally weaker than men. They're wrong. But you may come up against men who are bigger than you." This would not be difficult for Sam. There were probably _dwarves_ that were bigger than her."My advice is, talk to the seamstresses."

"The seamstresses, sarge?"

"Yes, the seamstresses. They all have their little tricks for the nasty customers, and they're counting on the fact that they'll be fighting someone bigger and stronger than them. Rosie Palm, for instance, has a mean right hook."

Sam snickered. "You get on her bad side, sarge?"

Vimes said, "I thought I was on her good side", which shut Sam up pretty fast. "Point is, they'll teach you dirty tricks that even Watchmen don't know."

There was a brief silence. 

"Sarge?"

"Yes, lance-constable?"

"You told me you wasn't going to look out for me specially just because I was a woman, but..." she spread her hands helplessly, almost dropping her bell.

_Damn._

Vimes couldn't afford to be honest, so she went for truthful instead. "Well, lance-constable, if you were to go and get yourself killed, I couldn't look myself in the face." 

***

"Have you ever thought about a slightly different line of work, Sergeant Keel?"

Madam spoke casually, but Vimes knew enough not to let her guard down. Madam wore her expensive dress like Vimes wore her dented armour; with the intent to make people underestimate her.

"Well, I've often been told that I would make a terrible seamstress, so, no."

Madam didn't laugh, but she coughed in what sounded suspiciously like the beginnings of a chuckle. "That's not precisely what I meant. How would you like to be back in command?"

This time, it was Vimes' turn to be taken aback. How could she know that? This was _history!_

"A woman who fights dirty and talks like she's used to commanding armies? And Rosie Palm said the armour they took off you was fit for a queen." Madam uncorked her champagne, glancing up at Vimes behind her eyelashes. "You may not be an impossibility, but you are certainly a rarity. And not one that should go to waste."

Vimes looked right between Madam's eyes, a trick she'd learned from years of standing in front of Vetinari.

"We couldn't put such a woman directly in command, of course. But, as we well know, the real work often gets done by those working in the shadows. Promote a Commander who's willing to toe your line, give you a position just low enough that you could still get work done." 

Of course. There hadn't been any Women In Charge in Ankh-Morpork back the - back now. Before Sybil, Sam would have made the mistake of assuming that meant there were no women in charge. But she'd met enough women who weren't In Charge but quietly directed the course of countries. Provided you didn't mind working out of sight, there was no limit to what you could do.

"No."

"Pardon me?"

"I've got no problem with working in the shadows. Do a lot of my best work there. But the law's got to be done in the light." That was the problem with Cable Street, when it came down to it. You got so used to working in the dark that you forgot what it was like to have people watching you. 

Besides, Vimes was tired of saying things weren't as they were.

Madam arched one perfect eyebrow. “That isn't a popular sentiment right now, Sergeant Keel. You might want to pick your battles.”

“I have.”

Madam paused for a moment, sipping her champagne.

“You know, Sergeant, I’ve been told that you’re a woman who can read the soul of the city through her boots, someone who knows the very cobblestones by name. Do you know what happens to a cobblestone that sticks out too far?”

Vimes squinted at her, pretending ignorance.

“It gets ground down. You're playing a dangerous game, Sergeant.”

A threat? Or maybe a warning. Madam didn't say anything directly. She made things happen through implications and delicate pauses and new p. You had to, if you were a woman in Anhk Morpork in those - in these days and wanted any kind of power. Looking at Johanna Keel, she'd see a woman who didn't know what she was getting into. But Samantha Vimes knew plenty about being ground down because you were too dumb and stubborn not to stick up.

And she was tired, suddenly, tired and homesick for a home that didn't even exist yet. More than anything, she missed Sybil. Sybil would've been able to match Madam implication for implication, and made Sam laugh afterward too.

"Didn't know I was playing a game. Don't have the head for anything more complex than checkers." She stood up, stretching her neck. "I'm here to do the job in front of me and then go home."

Madam didn't even raise an eyebrow this time, let alone an objection.

***

Dai Dickins had the watchmen in full chorus now and, oh _yes_ , they'd almost gotten to That Part of the song. "...they rise knees up, knees up, knees, up, knees up..."

Waddy looked over at her, then hissed at the men, "Pas devant la dame!"

Vimes clapped a hand on his back. "Don't worry, lad. I would've learned what knees were at some point."

Several of the men snickered. Waddy looked like he was about to say something, probably that the line about the knees wasn't the part he was worried about. But none of his mates looked willing to back him up, and so he submitted.

Vimes had one eye on young Sam, who was staring off into the distance. A careless observer would have thought she was scared, or at least shaken. Vimes knew better.

"Lance-Constable Vimes?"

Sam looked blankly at the sky above the barricade. Vimes repeated her question. "Lance-Constable Vimes, are you listening?"

She looked up, jaw set and eyes blazing. "S'not right, Sarge. I mean, we burned Cable Street down, right? But Winder told'm to do it." She gestured helplessly. "It goes all the way up, Sarge, and where do we stop?"

Vimes didn't know how to answer. She'd asked herself that question many times at the end of the shift or at the start of a bottle. Crime went all the way up but, mysteriously, the law didn't. Or wasn't supposed to. 

But you couldn't tell a dim, weedy kid like Sam that she was right about all of it; it'd be a proper Ankh-Morpork suicide. 

Instead, she asked, "Your mum ever told you that coppering isn't woman's work?"

Young Sam nodded, teeth still clenched.

"She's wrong. It's nasty, dirty and bloody hard; of course it's women's work. The bastards win every day of the week. The important thing, the really important thing, is not to be one of them."

That had been a Sergeant Keel-ism, worn smooth like a cobblestone in Vimes's head from years of repeating it. And sometimes it had been enough, but not always, and not now.

Sam looked blankly up at her, eyes too dry for tears.

Vimes sighed and squatted down next to herself, wincing as her knees cracked. "We do what we can. Enough to go home to our wives and look them in the face at the end of the day."

Sam blinked, and her gaze sharpened. It was a dangerous word, _our_ , and Vimes hoped Sam would get it without having to explain. The wizards said the past was a foreign country, but Vimes hoped that she could still speak the language.

Sam nodded slowly. "Yessir, Sergeant Keel." She looked like she'd been handed something fragile and didn't want to break it by thinking too hard about it.

After a moment, she stood up slowly. "Ready to help man - wom - guard the barricade, Sergeant Keel!"

Vimes grinned. "That's a good lad. Dickens is teaching a marching song up there; you'd better catch up so you can learn it."

She hadn't given her anything, not really. Not reassurance, not acceptance, not some kind of claim that it would get better. Because it _wouldn't,_ at least not for another twenty-odd years. 

But still, it was Something.

Vimes took one last drag on her cigarette before tossing it aside and following herself into the predawn light.

***

Sergeant Keel, the real one, was far taller than Vimes remembered. And far taller than Vimes. 

"Well, damn. Can any of your timey equipment fix this?" Looking up close, she could see that his face looked softer than hers. That was, provided you didn't mind looking closely at the face. Carcer did not play nice with his knife, and four days waiting in the morgue hadn't made it prettier.

Qu rubbed his forehead. It had clearly been a long day for him, in every sense of the word. "Commander, despite your inadvisable actions, we've found a solution. With a little more damage, the face won't be recognizable."

"I don't think that's going to fix the height. Or, well, other things." That was one of the problems with the old Watch understanding of gender. If someone stripped the body and found what they thought were the wrong bits, it might leave history flapping like a lot of dirty laundry on the line.

Lu-Tze grinned. "That's why we'll make sure Doctor Lawn does the autopsy. He's a bright man, and he won't make the same assumptions watchmen might."

Vimes nodded. Mossy Lawn could be a nosy bastard, but he'd be good about that kind of thing. 

"So all I have to do is take down Carcer?" 

Qu answered, "Broadly, except that you also need to remember -"

Lu-Tze gave him a Look. "Yes, Commander. Get Carcer and get home. In approximately that order."

Vimes grinned, a grin that was only second to Angus's in the sheer breadth of chaos and terror it could cause. "Good."

***

When time started again, Qu turned to Lu-Tze. "You didn't tell her what she changed."

Lu-Tze looked back at him, mildly. "Well, it wasn't much, Qu. Nothing _historical_. Maybe Sam Vimes had a bit of an easier time of it, being mentored by someone like her. Maybe it made some people sit up and think. But capital-H History didn't change."

"Sweeper, you were the one who said that history was only a lot of people's experiences stacked up together!" Qu paused for a moment, winding his Procrastinator back up with more viciousness than was strictly necessary. "I think you put her up to it."

People thought Lu-Tze's big secret was his mastery of déjà-fu. They underestimated the importance of being able to summon a look of affronted innocence on a moment's notice.

"Qu, as you will remember, I _specifically _forbade her from going as Johanna Keel!"__

Qu had no response to that, except the vague suspicion that forbidding Samantha Vimes to do something was the best way to ensure it got done.

***

No matter how hard the History Monks try, it's far harder to see the future from the past than vice-versa. There is an optical shimmer that resists even the wisest of monks, and restricts them to seeing only bits and pieces of a timeline. One hundred and forty-five History Monks had spent ten years on a research committee to find out why it happened before Lu-Tze had gently asked, "Is it not written that only hindsight is twenty-twenty?"

So from the past, the monks can see very little:

_Sam Vimes goes home. Sam Vimes, not a hugger by nature or by physical design, goes home and hugs her wife. Sam Vimes goes home and arrests a bad man, tells him the machine isn't broken yet. Sam Vimes goes home and names her son after a man whose place she took._

They can't see much more than that. After a while, it just gets too bright.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Which had developed after what was informally called the "Littlebottom Incident", where Detritus had nearly pushed a visiting deep-downer through a row of lockers. Everyone agreed that the Commander's glare was less terminal, if no less terrifying↩  
> ***
> 
> So I read notbecauseofvictories' excellent "Short Street to Kicklebury" and wondered what the events of _Night Watch_ would have been like for her Vimes. And because I have 0 ounces of chill, I decided to drag everyone else into Lesbian Sam Vimes Hell with me.


End file.
